Here I am, in the quiet of my room at home, listening to music my Mom describes as "mournful". I moved back to my house with my roommates today. It was more difficult than I thought.

I step back into my room. This is the place that I got the phone call. The place that I stood, hysterically crying into the phone, desperately trying not to upset little Jack, but not able to control asking Dad over and over again, Is it Evan? Is it Evan? This is also the last time I slept peacefully as I rested with Jack that day. The last time that I put my head on my pillow and didn't think about the moment that I.E.D. detonated in Iraq, killing my brother, along with 4 other brave soldiers. How vividly that day replays in my mind-over and over again.

I feel guilty. But as my roommate reminds me, I feel guilty about a lot of things. Still, I feel that I have a responsibility to my parents, to be sure they are going to be ok, to take care of them, to be sure I am there in every moment of difficulty they may have. But I do have to live my life too, and eventually I was going to have to leave the comfort of my parent's house. I knew I was going to have a hard time with it, so I figured it was best to go ahead and do it. The more time I spend here, hopefully the more comfortable I will be here. But it's still very hard.

After all, it is just me now. I have the sole responsiblity, I feel, as my parent's only child, to take care of them. It's a very alone feeling, too. I long for someone else to walk with me on this path, and I walk alone. Of course, I have many friends, but there is no one else in the world that was Evan's sibling. Just me. A book someone gave me describes how it's different to lose a sibling and have others than to be the only one left. And it is different in a lot of ways.

I was at a wedding this weekend and ended up striking up a conversation with a man sitting next to me at the reception as I picked at my salad. Conversation was flowing, and I don't remember what we were saying, but I could tell it was coming. That get-to-know-you question that I dislike so much, that I don't know how to answer. What was once a simple question has now become so complicated. He asked me if I had any siblings.

I immediately said "No" and I immediately felt horribly guilty about it. It's just that at that moment, I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't want to go through the awkwardness of telling them that yes, I did have a brother, but he was killed in Iraq.

I felt so guilty, in fact, that I later brought up in conversation that I did in fact have a brother, and explained the situation. People don't know what to say. I think I got the standard, "I'm sorry", or something along those lines. I will be certain that people remember Evan, his memory, and his sacrifice, and that people remember him. I will tell people about him, and I will go about answering that question differently the next time it is asked. I'm learning as I go along, I suppose.

I hope she doesn't mind that I quote her, but I recently read on a friend's blog, "We still celebrate, too. If you wait until life is perfect to do so, you’ll never get around to it. There’s always something to be stressed or sad about. But there’s usually something to celebrate as well". How true I find this to be. Grief and suffering comes, but joy comes too. I remember how guilty I felt the first time I laughed. All of the sudden, out of the blue, in the midst of hysterical tears, someone said something, and I just couldn't help but laugh out loud. I felt so horribly about it. But then I ask myself, how would Evan want me to react? Would he wish that I never laughed again, or want me to stop living?

I ask myself this often. I think about if I had been the one to die, and I think about how I would want Evan to live his life. And I would never want my death to destroy him. All I ever wanted was the absolute best for him, and I know how much he wanted the best for me. In fact, he was always concerned, afraid I was worrying too much.

So whenever I don't feel like picking myself up, or when I don't feel like getting out of bed, or when it just hurts to breathe, I think to myself: What would Evan want? How would he want me to live my life?

And the answer becomes strangely clear.